


I Just Want You For My Own

by define_serenity



Series: Seblaine Sunday Challenge [10]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas Fluff, Cotton Candy Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 12:48:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/define_serenity/pseuds/define_serenity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Seblaine Sunday: mistletoe] Sebastian’s invited to the Andersons’ annual Christmas party. It isn’t his first time meeting Blaine’s parents, but he’s nervous all the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Just Want You For My Own

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Seblaine Sunday, prompt: **mistletoe**. 
> 
> Inspired by a Sadie/Austin scene from this week's _Awkward_.

A fire crackles in the fireplace, accompanied by the soft buzz of voices and laughter interspersed with subtle hints of Christmas carols playing somewhere deeper in the house. He leaves his cup of eggnog full and forlorn on a mantelpiece where one of the staff would pick it up, his stomach upset around a sentiment he hesitates to call by its proper name.

There was a time not too long ago when Sebastian Smythe didn’t do love. He didn’t do sweaty palms or smiled secretly at a cute text, didn’t lie awake until three in the morning because every time he tried to coax sleep closer all he could see were honey eyes that ( _he swears_ ) started sparkling when they found his through a crowd.

He didn’t do boyfriends, or held hands in public, or cuddled on the couch while a lame romantic comedy played on the flatscreen, never appreciated how laughter could shake against his body and infect him.

And Sebastian Smythe most decidedly did not do butterflies. _He hated butterflies_. He had an intense and deep dislike for the entire concept.

“Are you nervous?” a voice sounds shrill next to him, and in his cursory glance sideways he’s met with a swoosh of black hair and a red bow. _Dottie_.

He chuckles, but it comes out more uncomfortable than he intended. “No,” he adds another lie to his mental repertoire–the butterflies in his stomach flutter and he almost doubles over, intensely disgusted with himself. He’s not a bitter person, he can be mean and dote out insults like candy, but he’s not bitter or jaded; he’s simply been conditioned to believe that the state of being in love was an unnatural one and should be denied at any cost.

Because his palms _are sweaty_ and he smiled at that stupid Christmas card Blaine felt the need to send through the mail, and last night it was four in the morning before he fell asleep, only to dream about rejection and heartbreak and humiliation that left him breathless every time he woke up from a restless slumber.

He has this boyfriend who liked to hold his hand and cuddle on the couch while watching movies he only agreed to watch because Blaine used those goddamn puppy eyes on him, and was none too shy about bribing him with hot and heavy make-out sessions afterwards, far from his parents’ prying eyes.

And his stomach was doing things it shouldn’t be doing.

“You are displaying the typical stress-induced habits that are generally associated with nerves.” Dottie’s eyes go wide behind her glasses. “Restless hands. Restless feet. Tense face.”

“My face is fine,” he grumbles, digging his hands into his pockets to keep them from shaking, and leans against the doorframe, hoping it’ll relax his posture.

“Objectively speaking,” Dottie continues, “It’s not.”

“Dorothy,” –he leans in, meeting Dottie’s big Disney eyes– “go bug someone else.”

Dottie shrugs and skips further into the room, drawing smiles and greetings from several guests. His shoulders tense, envious of Dottie’s familiarity with this room, with these people–his parents dragged him to plenty of Christmas parties every year, thrown by his father’s colleagues or friends of the family, so he should be able to blend into these circles easily. But this party isn’t like any other Christmas party. This one was hosted by his boyfriend’s parents.

He first met the Andersons at Thanksgiving at Blaine’s insistence. They’d barely been dating for two months and he’d heard enough about Blaine’s father to know he might not be approved of, but all in all it could’ve been worse. Dinner was awkward and there wasn’t much conversation safe for the few times Cooper tried to start one, but he got the distinct impression that had more to do with the Andersons’ shock over Blaine _bringing anyone_ rather than him inviting a boy to Thanksgiving dinner.

His own parents would more than likely stroke out if he ever brought a boy home for a family occasion.

And that’s the source of his nerves. More than his butterflies and jittery fingers, he has a hard time accepting that he’s thinking of introducing Blaine to his parents. Because what kind of guy does that? That’s the kind who gushes about his amazing boyfriend every chance he got, who spent every waking moment with said boyfriend or waited for a text when they were apart, whose skin flushed at the first sight of the boy who’d captured his heart like it was a thing waiting to be taken in the first place.

Yet, after only two months, a huge chunk of him had transformed into that boy. He and Blaine didn’t spend all their time together, they had other obligations and different interests to pursue from time to time, but they did go to school together, they were both in show choir, and even though those weren’t excuses they were the perfect opportunity to be exactly the boy he never thought he’d be. A fool in love.

“Hey, you,” the cause of all his misfortune sounds behind him, but as he turns a smile skips to a corner of his mouth and he braces for impact. Blaine stands dressed in a velvet bordeaux jacket over a red-dotted shirt, the matching ascot turning him three years older, every bit the gentleman he knows his boyfriend to be. He allows his eyes to roam free, from the pristinely pressed dress pants to the two buttons on Blaine’s jacket, lingering on the full lips curled into a smile.

Blaine blushes. “If you keep looking at me like that you’ll make me self-conscious.”

“You, self-conscious?” He raises an eyebrow. “Never in your life.”

Blaine toes a few steps closer. “Dottie told me you’re nervous.”

He smiles, scratching the back of his head. “Your best friend should mind her own business.”

“But it couldn’t be, could it?” Blaine’s eyes narrow coyly on his face as he reaches for one of his hands. “Cool, suave, Sebastian Smythe, nervous at my parents’ Christmas party?”

He’s absolutely certain he’s about to answer with another clever retort, but a squeak sounds down the hallway and both he and Blaine turn their heads to see Dottie jump up and down excitedly, pointing at something over their heads. They both look up, a small branch of mistletoe dangling over their heads, hanging from the ceiling on a red ribbon.

“No,” he utters before catching Blaine’s eyes again, which have gone big and hopeful. He shakes his head for emphasis and takes a few steps down the hallway, tugging Blaine along with him. “Absolutely not.”

“Sebastian, it’s tradition.”

He pulls them to a more secluded area of the house near the kitchen, where most of the guests probably won’t venture, but his eyes skip across the room as if the walls could have ears.

“You are nervous.” Blaine blinks up at him as if it’s a feeling he can neither reason nor rhyme with him. “My parents know we’re dating. Everyone here knows.”

“I know that.”

The smile that stretches across his boyfriend’s face once he realizes what’s really going on is nothing short of mesmerizing. Blaine leans into his body, sliding a hand up his chest until it rests over his heart, which beats at a pace he’s become intimately familiar with.

“Sebastian Smythe,” Blaine whispers, eyes shining. “Are you in love with me?”

And as ridiculous as it sounds to hear it out loud, to hear it voiced in no uncertain terms, shit, yes, he is in love. “Yeah, I am,” he sighs, reaching a hand up for Blaine’s face, caressing his fingers gently down his cheek. He can’t fathom how this boy managed to turn his entire world upside down in such a short amount of time. All it ever really took was his friendship and that smile and all his walls came straight down.

Blaine’s eyes turn soft and mushy (Dottie’s words, but he understood the implication behind it).

“I love you too,” Blaine says, and _his heart_ turns soft and mushy (Dottie’s words, but the implication behind these makes him weak in the knees).

Blaine rises on his toes, but a waiter passes with an empty tray, interrupting their quiet little getaway. “Come on,” Blaine says and takes hold of his hand, pulling him towards the stairs. They hurry up the stairs so they don’t get caught, and soon find themselves in Blaine’s bedroom.

It takes him shamefully long to notice there’s a branch of mistletoe attached to the headboard of Blaine’s bed.

His eyes narrow. “Did you plan this?”

Blaine giggles and nods, tugging at his tie. “My parents won’t notice we’re gone.”

“Dottie will,” he says, his hands settling on Blaine’s hips as he treads them towards the bed.

Blaine pulls him closer, their lips nearly touching. “She knows better,” he whispers, before pressing his lips to his. He melts forward and lets Blaine loosen his tie, unbuttoning his shirt halfway down his chest so he can trail his lips down his neck, teeth worrying his skin in a way that drives him absolutely crazy and wanton.

The bedsprings creak as they lie down on the bed together, nipping at each other’s lips, tongues outlining each other’s mouths long before they even make it to the headboard, and as Blaine settles between his thighs he decides it’s not all bad. He likes the way Blaine spells out words in his texts and sends one extra with corrections if he notices a mistake belatedly, he likes how Blaine wriggles his fingers between his to make their hands fit together, how he buries his face in his chest whenever a movie gets so cheesy it makes him blush.

Maybe butterflies aren’t that bad.

 

 

**\- fin -**

 


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